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(no subject) [May. 21st, 2009|07:29 pm]
[i am |scaredscared]

i am a person with a mental illness. i know not who the person is without a mental illness. i know not who this person is as a person, whether she is nice or bitchy or aloof or caring or cold or outlandish or studious or creative or manic or shy or talkative or warm.

i am a scared person with a mental illness.
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inferior convict stock [Dec. 23rd, 2008|01:25 am]
[i am |lethargiclethargic]

a depression child

i was a little girl, you know, i was five years old once. the world was very big and scary to my small brown eyes, terribly big and frightening. even when i was five years old i had a sense of my vulnerability. i had an oft-recurring dream in which i was in an immense room, so immense that i could not see the walls or ceiling, and everything in it was immense: everyday things, like beach balls, and tables and chairs, and toys, and even books. i was not scared of books in real life, but these books were terrifying - they were as large as a skyscraper, and the letters, typed in 'times new roman', were multiple times larger than i. only now do i know this dream was a reflection of my own insecurity. but how can a child of five feel such insecurity? i worried so often that i was not pleasing my parents, my sister, my friends, my extended family; i worried about my own mortality and had nightmares about the never-ending expanse of time after life - i could not imagine the universe going on without me in it, and the thought of that nothingness after life would fill my body with freezing shivers and i would often cry; i worried about the mortality of my family - i did not want to entertain the thought that one day my nanna peg and nanna and pa and mum and dad and sister would not be alive, but the thoughts entered my head at least once a day and i cried; i was only a little five year old and i never told a soul, not even now, how i was feeling because i didn't think anyone would listen, and if they did they would think it was silly and they would tell me i was just being silly and not to think about it, but how can i not think about it when it has been on my mind for twenty years?

i was not a loud child, i kept quiet, i read a lot of books by enid blyton and paul jennings and roald dahl and ann m. martin and lots of other different authors - i preferred to read over anything else. when i was reading i didn't have to talk to people, to think of good things to say, to worry that people would think i was silly or stupid or not funny or dumb or that i didn't have anything worth saying. 'the faraway tree' was the subject of my favourite stories - i had beautiful big picture book versions that i still have. enid blyton was my favourite author, though at that time i only read the faraway tree, wishing chair, the willow farm stories and the second st clare's story, but i read them over and over and over until i knew them off by heart. they had children in them, and they did ordinary things, like go to school, and walk in the park, and help their mothers, but these extra-ordinary things kept happening to them, and i always wished something like that would happen to me too. i would spend non-reading time in a world of my own, pretending i was in a beautiful fantasy land and just around the corner was a fairy-ring, or a nice wild man with an animal to show me, or a man with a round face waiting to take me up the tree so i could have a go on his slippery-dip. sleeping over at nanna peg's house, i would pretend i was in st clare's school, putting my belongings on the broad window-sill in the good room as if i was "sharing part of a shelf, putting her things there, and keeping them tidy, like her cake-tins and biscuit-tins, her sewing and knitting and the library book she's reading". nanna peg taught me how to cross-stitch and knit, and mum gave me a knitting wallet to keep my sewing in, and i felt very proud to put it on the shelf like a st clare's girl. i took that wallet everywhere with me, and would get my sewing out every time i could. i would also slip a book in there, just in case. still i take a book everywhere i go, just in case.
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is like the new past [Dec. 19th, 2008|10:51 pm]
i know these deliciously brilliant people. when i read what they write or see what they take photos of or hear what they bang out of instruments, i feel full of ideas to create my own works of art, my own bits of myself that i can put in a form that is beautiful and pleasing to the senses, but i also feel sick to the gut at how wonderful these people are and how their gifts seep out of their pores from the deepest recesses of their beings, and at how i feel utterly inadequate and unable to transfer these ideas to a form outside of my brain. i have flashes of ideas in a head that spins like a whirlpool concentrated and squished into the small mindspace, and the harder the mind works to extract an idea/thought/sentence/emotion/word, the faster the whirl spins until it generally sinks into an abyss. is this what is known as a catch-22? the more i try to slow the whirl down, the faster it spins because of the mindspace expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting as i breathe in and out, in and out, purposefully filling the lungs to their capacity, the blood pumping forcefully through the body, sounding echo-y in the ears, holding the breath in for 1........2........3........4........5........6........7........8........9........10 and letting it go, the lungs pressing in, the carbon dioxide speeding up the trachea and out past the tongue/teeth/lips, 'so long carbon', and the muscles and organs and blood are supposed to relax, so to should the whirl ebb. no it does not, it spins faster and faster and it begins to spit out things, cold, scary, fearful, nasty, low, dark things that live in the abyss but when it spins this fast, the abyss is forced to the surface and it loves it up here, doesn't it. the light kisses it and it is fed by the light, and the speed of the whirl cranks up ever faster, shooting the cold things up and out, up and out and out into the space where it can be seen in all its menacing glory, all its spikes and fangs and red eyes, and roaring voice that will not stop, it will keep shouting and shouting, egged on by the other scaries that spew out of the abyss, and there is coldness in the body, the blood runs cold, the heart pumps faster and louder to warm the blood, the skin tingles and goose bumps appear, the breath is fast and small, the stomach shrivels into nothing and the mind starts to expand - the scaries push against it and don't let it contract, they push and push and push and it bulges out in places and how can no one else see it? how does it all happen, how do the scaries make it seem like death is imminent and deserved and no amount of "right-doing" can change the simple fact that i deserve the scaries, that i am not good, that i am a low person, that i deserve the crashed hurdles and don't deserve the cleared ones, that i do not deserve the happiness that i have?
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the streetlight is on [Nov. 28th, 2008|08:26 pm]
[i am |quixoticnot]

The sky is getting very dark, the clouds are grey-blue, the trees look very green against the sky. sarah sits at her computer in the flat she pays rent for but that she is not on the lease of, supposed to be watching crocodile dundee because it is one of those movies every australian has to see but she cannot keep her focus on it. The sky is getting darker and the streetlights, two she can see, are very very bright against the dark sky. Four and a half cars are parked in the street below her first floor flat that technically she does not live in according to the lease, and light from the streetlights is reflected on the shiny metal bonnets and boots and doors and roofs and reflects straight into her eyes.


I am very tired and very sick both mentally and physically. There.
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glandular fever sucks balls [Nov. 14th, 2008|05:58 pm]
[i am |sicksick]

Apparently i've had it for the last 2 weeks, and did not know anything about it. I am sick sick sick sick sick sick and so very tirrred - the words on this screen I am typing are all blurry and fdoubled. My sinuses are all blocked, my ear really hurts, my tonsils really hurt too, and I can only eat soft food. Oh no, i can only eat ice cream and yoghurt and custard! And eggs YAY for savouries. But man, Dave decided to have NACHOS last night, oh man they smelt and looked and SOUNDED so good. BUT they would have ripped my tonsils apart, so whatever. But seriously, I just wanted them. Never have i craved something crunchy as I do right now. But also, never have I felt less hungry. I have never just had to eat out of necessity, but i am now, keeping my strength up.

AND I AM WEAK MAN, SO DAMN WEAK. So fatigued, as the doctor put it. He said I should be down on the beach with a tartan rug wrapped around my legs with a nurse attending to me, like they did in the olden days. Oh I wish. Would give anything to be down the beach wrapped in a tartan rug with my own puersonal nursemaid.

Anyway, he is home, so will go and be nice attentive infected girlfriend.
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(no subject) [Sep. 3rd, 2008|05:57 pm]
[i am |blahehh]
[i'm listening to |'sorrow' - life without buildings]

I am sitting in the corner of the computer room in the library at Swinburne. I am supposed to be in class - I was supposed to be in class for the past couple of hours - but couldn't sit there being quiet and pretending to be interested in topics that do not interest me and don't have anything to do with what I want to do and are a total waste of time anymore. I am here on campus every Wednesday from 1.30 in the afternoon until 8.30 in the evening and it is the longest day ever. I don't know how the other people in my class do it. They stay for all the classes and never leave early and are always chirpy and eager. Maybe they're all putting various masks on, I don't know. I can mask myself for only a certain amount of time. It is terribly tiring - physically draining.

I still haven't heard from the real estate agent regarding my application to move into the spare room at Dave's flat. I put it in over 3 weeks ago and have called them numerous times and they have always said someone will call back but I have not heard a thing. So I called them today and had a go at them - went really narky and coony at them. Hopefully that has stirred them up a bit. Seriously, that is hopeless. Thank God Dave has a bit of cash to play with otherwise he'd be totally out of pocket paying the full amount of rent.

La la la la. I am completely exhausted. Completely. I wish I could take off the next couple of years and sleep. I am hardly ever at my own place, or anywhere where I can relax. Always out babysitting or running errands or at tafe or in the car driving to babysitting or errands.

Whinge moan whinge moan complain. I can so I will.
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lucky oceans, man [Jul. 8th, 2008|11:36 pm]
[Current Location |kew]
[i am |coldcold]
[i'm listening to |'the daily planet' - radio national]

I annoy myself at how I neglect this and my paper journal. I come on here regularly, I read my friends page and sometimes comment, but when I get to my own entries I clam up. My brain seems to freeze while it's doing what it does. History says that writing has been good for me. It is my own irrational belief that stops me. I cannot seem to write about good things - my stupid brain convinces me that I will jinx it if I write about it, calling on instances last year such as:

- writing in my journal that I was making a conscious effort to be healthy and do more things for myself that i enjoy, ie. regular swimming, yoga, tennis, then that week the achilles tendon snapped in my right leg

- earlier than that, doing the same thing and that same week I tore ligaments in my left ankle

- writing in my journal that everything was wonderful, that I was at peace with everything, that I was content and happy - still with some work to do, but happy with it - and that same night, I was told that Phil killed himself

and each time the world turned on its head and everything fell down and broke and went to shit and all those other things you say when things go bad.

BUT IT IS IRRATIONAL, MAN!! I KNOW IT IS!! Isn't it? Just because it has happened three times in a year, doesn't mean it will always happen, yeah? I will be able to write freely about good things without fear. I can now, can't I?


Good thing I'm seeing my psych tomorrow....methinks this isn't quite right.
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breathe in deep and cleanse away your sins [May. 10th, 2008|10:35 am]
[i am |coldcold]

Dave is in the lounge room writing a song. HAH! Just randomly, on my guitar. We had such a super night last night. Stell and Dave and me just hung out at mine, talking shit. Was so lovely.

It seems like every time I go to write in this or in my paper journal, I get stuck for what to say. Maybe I'm out of practice, I don't know, but it seems really hard to open up in things like this nowadays. And it's not like nothing has happened and my head is devoid of any thought, either. So much has happened and I have not stopped thinking. But I used to be able to write so easily, and now it's more difficult than it ever has been. I don't get it.

See? I just sat for five minutes or so just staring at the keyboard, with my mind going mental, but I couldn't put any of it into visible form.

Dave is now finished his song, and is going to play it for me.
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and i would love to see the day.... [Apr. 28th, 2008|06:03 pm]
[i am |happyhappy]
[i'm listening to |'postcards from italy' - beirut]

I am so happy right now. My friends are amazingly gorgeous people that make me laugh and smile and love them. I am loving TAFE because there are lovely people that I love to see, and a fabulous teacher that makes her subject interesting. I am babysitting for wonderful, wonderful children that I adore spending time with. I have a beautiful boyfriend who loves me, and whom I love too.
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*spew* [Apr. 10th, 2008|01:00 pm]
[i am |sicksick]

Oh good god I hate hospitals. I spent yesterday in one, being re-hydrated. I was up all Tuesday night chucking - I couldn't keep WATER down! - then got the squirts in the early morning. My uncle came round to bring me maxalon and powerade, and apparently when I let him in I collapsed. He rang the ambos and they took me to Box Hill hospital cos my blood pressure was way low. God, I slept pretty much all day and had 2 litres of fluid IV'd into me after waiting for hours in an isolation room. But I didn't have a room for hours either and they wouldn't let me use the toilet cos of the gastro, so I had to poo into a pan in a hallway!!!! JESUS CHRIST was so embarrassing. And when the nurse put the bung (bong? the thing in your arm) in, it bled everywhere and was really scary. But when I was in the isolation room I had a toilet for a while at least, but then they moved me to another room with no toilet, but a COMMODE. A FUCKING COMMODE WHEN YOU HAVE THE SHITS IS SO EMBARRASSING. And they think nothing of walking in on you while you're still pooing, then making a big show of spraying air freshener everywhere. WELL SOR-RY, YOUR MAJESTIES, LET ME USE THE DUNNY NEXT TIME AND YOU WON'T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH IT!!!!

Still got the squirts but at least am not chucking anymore. Worst timing for it too, it was my day off from placement yesterday and had to spend it in hospital. AND had to take the day off placement today, so I have to do an extra day. Fucken.
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